


i gave him my heart, he gave me a shirt

by MarzgaPerez



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Engagement, Feels, Gap Filler, Light Angst, M/M, Nostalgia, S10 Fill-In, Sentimental, the shirt needs a nickname
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarzgaPerez/pseuds/MarzgaPerez
Summary: This is dedicated to the plaid shirt that made an appearance in S7 and S10E10, set right before Ian visits Mickey at Byron’s apartment to return said shirt.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	i gave him my heart, he gave me a shirt

Ian was waiting patiently at the base of the attic ladder - well, as patiently as he could, considering he was on another mission to try to change Mickey’s mind about their break-up. Last night’s attempt to win him back was a complete failure. The rings he’d so carefully selected had been shoved back into their boxes, instead of resting snuggly on each of their fingers. And at this moment, Mickey was probably waking up naked in somebody else’s bed, aka Vespa boy, instead of next to Ian where he belonged.

He could hear Carl’s footsteps above and the sound of his brother stumbling in the darkness and pilfering his way through the mountains of worthless crap that had long ago been forgotten.

“Found a box with your name on it!” Carl called down.

“That’s gotta be it. Thanks!” replied Ian, hopeful that the relic he was looking for could be found.

“Ready?” The top of Carl’s triumphant face appeared in the opening of the attic, followed by his hands lowering a medium sized box with “Ian” scrawled on the side. Ian balanced his weight on his good leg, resting his side against the ladder as he received the box and placed it on the floor, wanting to tear into it right away.

“Coming down!” declared Carl. Ian used his crutches to maneuver himself out of the way.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Look what else I found!” Carl was halfway down the ladder when he hopped to the ground and yanked a pair of nunchucks from the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Nice. Any ninja stars?” asked Ian.

“Nah,” Carl shook his head, folding the ladder back into itself and letting it release with a loud _thud_ into the ceiling. “Fiona musta gotten rid of those a long time ago. Where do you want your box?”

“Oh, uh...in my room.”

Ian let Carl pass in front of him and followed behind, the pads of the crutches digging into his arm pits, but he moved quickly, his body having adjusted to the altered motions that came with his broken leg. Or his _war wound_ , as he liked to think of it in the ongoing Gallagher versus Milkovich battle of royal fuck-ups.

Carl set the box on Ian’s unmade bed and wished him “good luck” before closing the door, word of Mickey’s latest rejection already known throughout the house.

Lifting the flaps of the box, Ian coughed as a swirl of dust filled the air. He waved it out of the way, and too eager to wait any longer, dumped the contents onto his bed. There, under some well-worn medical text books and other insignificant junk was a familiar fabric. He gently lifted the patterned shirt out of the pile, as if handling it too roughly would cause the entire thing to unravel, and Ian couldn’t have that. 

No, he was going to march right over to that swanky apartment building, give Mickey his old shirt back, and tell him what he’d meant to Ian. Their fates were woven together, and Ian needed to confess how badly he regretted, among other things, not crossing the border into Mexico with Mickey.

_I didn’t trust myself back then. And I don’t know if I trust myself now. But I trust you, Mickey. I think about it every day - all the times we were so close, and I couldn’t bring myself to take the plunge with you. But I want that now, I do. I can’t be the one who breaks your heart anymore. I need to be the one who puts it back together, just like you’ve done for me. Too many times to count._

Maybe seeing the shirt Ian had swiped and stuffed in his backpack while Mickey wriggled his way into that disguise at the border - a black flowered dress that the Southside thug somehow managed to pull off - would at least get his ex talking to him.

^^^^^^^^^^

It was an hour or so before the concert, and Mickey begrudgingly pulled the musty plaid shirt out of the drawer Byron had assigned him. He threaded his arms into the sleeves and fastened the buttons at the cuffs, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. Still fit him like a glove. He’d always wondered what happened to the damn thing, but it was such a minor concern compared to everything Mickey had faced alone, venturing into a foreign country with only his wits to get him through his new life on the run.

Did Ian really think _this shirt_ would remind Mickey of anything other than the way the redhead had left his ass high and dry at the border?

Mickey tore the shirt off and threw it on Byron’s bed, slumping down on the ground, cradling his face in his hands and wiping at the tears that were threatening to fall. _Asshole._ What meaningless bullshit had been on the tip of Ian’s tongue when he’d hobbled over that morning? Coming around to pour his heart out again, waving that damn shirt around, like a white flag of surrender. 

Only things hadn’t gone the way Mickey planned. Fuck, he didn’t acutally have a plan, but it definitely didn’t involve having to watch Ian hang all over some other dude at a stupid fucking hipster concert.

Maybe he wouldn’t go, maybe he’d tell Byron his GERD was acting up and that he’d rather drive nails into his ears than listen to that emo shit. Fuck Ian and his fucking unoriginal schemes and his fucking sappy sentimental bullshit that didn’t mean a damn thing.

_Oh, fuck._ Who was he kidding? Mickey had forgiven Ian a few weeks after he’d crossed into Mexico. He’d stayed briefly in _Piedras Negras_ , a decent sized city along the border. It wasn’t the kind of place where Mickey could have gone undetected for very long - too many tourists, too many cops.

He knew the real opportunities to put his talents to use were in Juarez, so he hauled ass to the northern part of the country, changing out vehicles every couple of hundred miles, constantly worried that he was being watched or about to be captured. He didn’t want that kind of life for Ian; Mickey wasn’t sure if he could have made it through all that shit...or if they could have made it.

But after everything, Mickey turning on the cartel and negotiating his way back into Ian’s life, fighting to maintain some semblance of a relationship while they lived on top of each other in prison, and running back into his arms the first chance he got - now that they had a real chance to make it, why the fuck had Gallagher blown it again?

Mickey picked up the shirt, running his fingers over the soft fabric. _Fuck it. I’m gonna wear this piece of shit and show Ian that this shirt doesn’t mean a damn thing. It’s just a shirt. It’s just a ring. It’s just a piece of paper..._

^^^^^^^^^^

The bar was quaint, and the music was mildly pleasant, probably what you’d expect to hear playing over the speakers in a Whole Foods bathroom. Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away from Mickey though, how good he looked, so confident but full of shit at the same time. _I knew he’d wear the shirt to fuck with me. I fucking knew it._

Ian noted that Mickey had barely said a word to the “love-of-his-life” Byron the entire night. The brunet had seemed more preoccupied with what Ian and his date were up to, which wasn’t much. He hadn’t intended to completely ignore Cole, but at least the dude was busy plying himself with liquor and blissfully unaware of the drama that Ian had pulled him into.

The band was taking a break, and Ian downed a shot, liquid courage for what he needed to do. An onstage proposal? If he grabbed the microphone and proposed to Mickey in front of everyone, telling him what he’d wanted to say the morning before, maybe they could end this stalemate.

_Every time I’ve fucked things up between us, you waited. Every time I doubted myself, you tried to help me find my way. Now that I’ve found it, will you do me the honor of..._

Ian didn’t know if he could handle any more rejection, fearing Mickey would say his hollow, empty words were not enough. But he couldn’t stand the thought of _his_ Mickey, standing across the room with that damn scowl on his face and not in Ian’s arms. There had to be some way to show Mickey it wasn’t over between them.

And then he overheard Byron addressing some friends of his, in a most snarky way, describing a man who didn’t resemble Mickey Milkovich at all, not with _those_ words, not with _that_ tone. The twink had no fucking right to disparage Mickey’s character. No fucking right...

^^^^^^^^^^

Mickey grabbed Ian’s arm and pulled him out of the bar. “Let’s get the fuck outta here…” He realized any one of those hipsters could have called the police, and the last thing either of them needed was to end up back in the slammer for violating their parole. 

They walked hurriedly for a few blocks - Mickey impressed with Ian’s pace on crutches - stopping once there seemed to be a safe distance between them and their injured dates, breathless laughter pouring out of their mouths. Mickey pushed Ian into the side of a building, his expression playful but suddenly serious and determined. “Where’s my ring? It isn’t official until I’m wearing the ring.”

“Fuck, Mick. I almost forgot.”

As Ian grabbed the box out of his coat pocket and prepared to open it, Mickey noticed a trickle of blood pooling at the top of his fiance’s lip. 

“C’mere, first. You gotta look proper.” Mickey dabbed at the spot of blood with the sleeve of his shirt as Ian got back down on one knee, crutches tossed to the ground. 

Ian placed the ring on his “U” finger, smiling up at Mickey, eyes full of love, but shaking his head at the same time. “Mick, you got blood on the shirt. It’s special.”

“It’s a goddamn shirt, Ian.”

“I know, but it opened the door for me to - ”

“Weasel your way back into my life?” Mickey suggested, one eyebrow raised as he helped Ian up from the ground, planting a deep kiss on his lips to stifle any protests.

“Look. Don’t worry about the shirt, man. I know how to get bloodstains outta shit. I’m a Milkovich. Besides,” he crooned, “it’s just gonna be crumpled up next to our bed as soon as I get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Erikutta, for being a most lovely and kind beta!


End file.
